Now, we have been gifted a pheasant. The benefactor is a customer, a man who likes Oliver’s bacon so much he buys a whole side at a time. He takes it on holiday with him to far flung islands and invites friends along for epicurean feasts. This man went on a pheasant shoot in Victoria and shot more than his own tastes required, so gave us a bird.
I collected it from the drop-off point, a Launceston providore where the girls were a little freaked out by the sight of a fully feathered dead pheasant, and had popped it on the floor of the cool room in a corner, with its head tucked under a cabinet.
Things I’ve been right about include coming to Australia, moving to Tasmania, and having children, although the jury’s still out on that one. But it turns out that Oliver is proven right about using the smoker to cook our gourmet sausages at events.
Oliver made all four of our smokers himself. They stand around our bush block looking a bit like Ned Kelly costumes. Each one is bigger than the last. They're made from barrels, steel boxes and old air compressors and Oliver entertains himself by carving a pig face into the fire chamber. The latest is made from a double fridge he brought home from the tip. One day I’ll push him too far and you’ll find me swinging in there by the ankles in a fog of apple smoke.